


The Crystal Rose

by icecreamprincss



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, prompt: Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-03
Updated: 2008-12-03
Packaged: 2019-07-02 13:25:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15797448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamprincss/pseuds/icecreamprincss
Summary: Her mom has lead a pretty normal life, right?  At least, that's what Elizabeth always thought, until a school report sheds light on Leah's past.





	The Crystal Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ's twilight100.

It was Wednesday afternoon before Thanksgiving break and our history teacher was assigning some standard fluff essay on the origins of a family tradition. I twirled the pen through my fingers and tried not to check my watch again. I sighed with relief when the bell finally rang. 

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes, Mr. Hausselt?”

The old man looked uncomfortable. “Do you have an idea for your essay? Because, well, I understand if your family doesn't have a lot of Thanksgiving traditions. You could always write about another holiday you celebrate.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. “I have one in mind.”

\-------

I stood outside in the light drizzle, excited about seeing Uncle Seth for the weekend. I caught sight of Mom's gold Mercedes near the back of the line of cars entering the school parking lot. I smiled to myself, remembering when she got her “mid-life crisis car.” Seth had followed her home from the dealership, and was clearly in the middle of teasing her about it, as he started up again as soon as they parked.

“It's not like I got an Astin Martin.” She'd grumbled.

He'd smiled indulgently, and rumpled her hair. She'd punched him in the gut.

\-------

Finally, my mom was pulling up to the curb, and I slipped into the warm car. 

“Hi sweetie! How was school? Got a lot of homework for the weekend?”

“Hi Mom. Good. No, just math and an essay. I'm going to start it on the way over, ok?”

“Sure, Liz.” She tucked a piece of my long dark hair behind my ear, then switched on the stereo. As the gentle piano music filled the car, I pulled out my notebook and peaked in the back seat. There, in an unmarked cardboard box, nestled in with packing peanuts, was my essay.

\-------

It was the only Thanksgiving tradition I could think of that had survived my father's death six years ago. After he was gone, we stopped doing the turkey, started visiting La Push, ignoring the “pale-faces'” ways.

Though it was obvious which tradition to use, I was nervous. I knew I needed more information to do it justice, and discussing the past wasn't my mother's strong suit. I decided to start with what I knew myself, and maybe ask Uncle Seth for help later.

I opened my notebook and wrote out a preliminary title, “The Crystal ~~Vase~~ Rose.”

\-------

It's one of the most beautiful things we own: a crystal vase, sweeping in gentle curves up to a thin neck, large enough for only a handful of flowers. The piece is gorgeous without them, however, as there is a permanent crystal rose sharing the space. It is the kind of vase one might expect was a very generous wedding gift, but I don't know for sure where it came from. When I was younger, I was fascinated with it, and tried to grab it after my mother set it out.

_“No, Elizabeth!” She shouted. “That's very important to Mommy.”_

\-------

I'd cried over that scolding until I fell asleep that night. Mom must have felt sorry for me, because the next morning, Thanksgiving itself, she brought three beautiful roses into my room, and told me I could put them in the vase this year.

I was appeased, and so proud of the three beautiful real roses nestled around the gorgeous crystal one. “Thank you, Mommy! They're pretty, aren't they?”

“Yes, very pretty.”

I went to hug her, she was staring at the flowers with sad eyes. “I'm sorry, Mommy! I won't touch it again. Don't be sad!”

“I'm okay, baby.”

\-------

My mother never threw those roses out until they were completely dead. She'd watch as they wilted and browned. I asked her about it, one year.

“Why do you like to watch them die, Mom?”

She looked at me, chased the sadness in her eyes away with a small smile. “I don't like it, honey, it's just the way things are. It's as it should be for them to fade.”

I'd hugged her, and said, “At least the crystal one is always pretty.”

The sadness was back in her voice when she replied, “Yes, the crystal one is always perfect.”

\-------

Each year, after the turkey, Dad made us say what we were thankful for. He always had a huge list to share. He was thankful for us, for Grandma Ellen's knee healing quickly, for the good project team he had at work. I followed suit, cheerfully thankful for my parents, my coloring book, and that Sammy Clifton invited me to her sleepover. Mom never had a list like ours, she just looked at the roses, and every year she said, “I'm thankful for this moment, that it means something when it passes and for this one life we have together.”

\-------

It only occurred to me later that it was an odd thing to be thankful for.

The year after Dad died, neither of us could stomach the thought of his favorite traditions. We went to see Seth, and the vase came with us. That was the first year there were two roses. I was old enough to understand the symbolism, and I spent the day screaming at her from across the room.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mom,” I spat bitterly. “Does it mean something that time passes now? Are you so thankful?”

She flinched at each word, but held her ground. “Yes.”

\-------

I put the pencil down, trying not to cry.

“Liz, what's wrong?”

“Sorry, just thinking about Dad.” 

She grabbed my hand and held it for a long time. “I miss him too.”

I squeezed her hand and picked up the pencil again. 

“How's the essay going?” 

“It's okay. I think I've got all I can do right now; I'll do some research after we get to La Push.”

“What's it about?”

“Oh, a Thanksgiving tradition, but Mr. Hausselt said I could do a Quileute one...um...the bonfires.” I lied.

She laughed. “Well, talk to Uncle Seth, that's his favorite.”

\-------

Seth looked uncomfortable, ran a long hand through his hair. “Um, Liz, I don't know, if your Mom hasn't talked to you about it...”

I tried my best pouting niece face, “Please Uncle Seth, you know how she is about things. I'll never get an answer out of her, much less a good one I can use for my paper.”

He took one more look at me and caved. “Well, um, let's see. It wasn't a wedding gift, like you guessed, but it wasn't from Grandma Sue.”

“Who was it from?” I whispered, trying to tone down my raging curiosity.

\-------

“Let's just say that the day you were born, it made a lot of people happy. The two happiest were your Mom and Dad, naturally. The third...”

“Was you?” I guessed with a laugh.

“I was ecstatic to meet my beautiful niece, of course.” Seth bit his lip, ran his hands through his hair again. Then his eyes got a far-away look and he continued, “But, no, he was far happier. He worked so hard on her, endured the bittersweet heartache of seeing her heal, grow, move on. Plus, she named you for his mother, that really touched him.”

\-------

My mouth was hanging open, I couldn't seem to remember how to talk. I wanted to ask the obvious follow up question, but Seth stopped abruptly. “Leah, hi.” I turned to see her in the doorway. She was so angry her hands were actually shaking. I'd never seen her so livid.

“It's time for bed, Liz.”

I blushed, but didn't get up. “It's for the paper, Mom. It's the only real Thanksgiving tradition we have anymore!”

“Bed.”

“Well, if you won't tell me how it started, can I at least come with you to get the flowers tomorrow?”

“Absolutely not.”

\-------

But this was about more than the essay now. I wasn't giving up until I had some answers. What kind of family keeps secrets like this for this long? It was infuriating. So, I pretended to go to bed and snuck out of the window. When Mom left to get those flowers for her stupid tradition, I was going to be ready. I hid in the trees along the side of Seth's house, watching for her.

I was surprised when, only an hour later, my mom quietly came out of the back door, and headed into the woods. I followed.

\-------

I sat behind the tree and waited, watching my mother pace in the small clearing below. Suddenly, there was a tall, lean man standing across from her. He was young, and undoubtedly the most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen. His eyes snapped to my hiding place, they seemed odd to me somehow, and he opened his mouth...

“Edward.” She said the name as if she'd been carrying something incredibly heavy that was suddenly gone.

Too quick for my eyes to follow, they were together, kissing with a desperate kind of slightly tortured passion that Romeo and Juliet would have envied.

\-------

He held her, whispered, “Leah, Leah,” like a prayer. She was crying a little.

I'd never seen my mother cry.

Even at my father's funeral, she hadn't cried. I closed my eyes, tried not to hear them. I was suddenly ashamed of myself for watching this, and also ashamed of her. How could she be kissing this boy? He was barely older than I was!

His low voice, apparently impossible to ignore, broke through my thoughts. “Look here.” I obeyed. He was still staring into her like she was the center of the known world, and holding two pink roses.

\-------

Her dark fingers lingered over his pale ones as she took the flowers. She wiped her tears with the back of her other hand and took a deep breath.

“You shouldn't be so closed to her, Leah.” 

Her eyes locked with his, and it looked like she was trying to tell him something important, but couldn't find the words. Finally, she sighed. “Happy Thanksgiving. And...thank you, again.” 

“I love you, too.” He replied.

“As long as I live.”

His hand stroked her face. “Forever.”

He kissed her, and I ran back to the house, unable to watch any more.

\-------

I stared dumbly at my graded essay. I'd never gotten a D before. I let out a sigh as I read Mr. Hausselt's comments.

_Not up to your usual standards, and clearly a recycling of your genealogy essay earlier in the term. I thought you had an actual Thanksgiving tradition in mind. Do I need to talk to your mother?_

Somehow, that was hilarious to me. I spent the rest of the lecture trying not to cry over the grade or laugh hysterically at the thought of Mr. Hausselt getting anywhere near my mother with that topic.

I hated Thanksgiving.


End file.
